Dr NT and a sensory extravaganza

I hear the elephants charging upstairs, wildebeest and gazelles at their sides. I mistake the sound for rocks in heaven, or perhaps “God moving furniture”, like we tell little kids when explaining thunder. I feel the ground shake as they thunder past, and cower as the house moves around me.

I’ve been in a lot of pain and been fairly down the last few days. But I also went to a new doctor on Monday, whom I’ll call Dr NT (for Natural Therapies), and left with my wallet $120 lighter and with a swag of papers ordering food allergy and intolerance tests, a hair mineral test, various blood tests and, worst of all, a glucose tolerance test. For the uninitiated, a GTT involves drinking about a litre of glucose syrup then sitting in a chair for four hours while people in uniforms take blood sugar level readings every thirty minutes. It's unpleasant.

I hear a saxophone in the distance, singing alongside a sexy Latin man of about fifty. I see the silver flecks in his dark hair shine in tandem with the red suit he wears… he is like a Latin Sean Connery. I hear his honey voice sing jazz to adoring fans.

I was also carrying a piece of paper with a list of allowed foods and disallowed foods. Suspecting hypoglycaemia, Dr NT has commanded I do not eat any sugar or yeast. Furthermore, he’s given me a list of so-called “rheumatic foods” to avoid, featuring tomatoes, capsicums, peppers, all citrus fruits (including passionfruit), beef and veal, peanuts or cocoa. This has immediately rendered half of my pantry inedible in one fell swoop but luckily The Optimist said he’d give me a few bucks for the stuff I can’t eat. I guess I should start looking into recipes.

I hear music so clearly, as if the gramophone that bears them is made of the finest crystal ane gold. I hear subtle notes that I have never heard before, and notice in parts the music is going slower than usual… but not slow in a “the fucking tape is stuck again!” kinda way, in a beautiful, perfect, harmonious way. I see a television in the distance, hear the news anchor speaking quickly as she recites a night’s worth of the city’s maladies. Though I am inside, I hear her floral voice. I feel white noise press on my skin as it trembles past my ears.

In other news, I won $500 from the university last week as part of a bursary programme. My winning was based on my results last year, so that was a very welcome surprise in an otherwise pedestrian week.

To the pizza lover

Since moving down to Sydney, I've rented a PO box since I don't trust The Space Cadet not to burn and then smoke my mail. When I paid for the PO box I was given six months' free redirection of my mail. When filling out the form I was asked if I would like all mail redirected, or just mail addressed to me personally; I ticked the box indicating I only wanted personally addressed mail.

Last week I checked my mail and the letter below was the only thing in the box. Obviously they have a fairly broad interpretation of "personally addressed mail". I laughed all the way home.

The beer bottle symphony

Yesterday morning I woke up and heard strange sounds coming from the kitchen. After a few minutes, I recognised the sound to be someone playing beer bottles. I guessed (correctly) that it was probably The Optimist.

(I’m not sure if this is an Aussie thing or not, but basically you put some water in the beer bottle and blow over the top of the opening to make a sound. If you have different bottles with different amounts of water, it creates different notes. An Aussie beer company made an ad for their beer that shows an entire orchestra playing beer bottles. The video is on youtube.)

Next I heard a guitar twanging in between the sound of the beer bottles. I lay there for about half an hour listening to the weird cacophony coming from the kitchen, wondering what the hell The Optimist was trying to achieve. It was strangely calming though, so I drifted back to sleep for about an hour and when I woke up I heard The Optimist and The Girl From Down The Street talking in the kitchen. I got up and went into the kitchen and found them making strawberry pancakes (not by adding strawberries to the batter, but simply by adding strawberry flavoured milk). As we ate, I was about to ask The Optimist about the beer bottle playing, but he beat me to it and got eight beer bottles from on top of the fridge and set them on the dining table in a line. “Listen to this!” he said enthusiastically, before he sat down and played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. “I even got my guitar down to tune them!”

It was so funny and so cute. His enthusiasm should be bottled.

Three Little Morons

On Thursday night three of The Optimist’s friends crashed here, en route to a weekend break on the South Coast. The Three Little Morons arrived at about 8pm and, after a quick dinner of spaghetti with “leftovers sauce”, played a very drunken game of cards. The Girl From Down The Street joined them and soon the group got rowdy, as drunken teenagers are wont to do.

I was in my room, watching TV, listening to thumping sounds coming through the ceiling above me, as The Morons ran up and down the stairs, crash landing at the bottom, and wrestled in the hallway. I overheard snatches of shouted conversations, in which The Three Little Morons discussed the merits of rooting The Girl From Down The Street and asked The Optimist if he had done so yet (he hadn’t) and why not (because she’s his friend, not his girlfriend). These are conversations that took place in front of her no doubt. I went to bed at about 1am, the sounds of their little party dimly audible through ear plugs.

I woke at 8am, wandered into the kitchen, and was instantly buffeted by the smell of ripe alcohol permeating from the very pores of the walls. A quick glance to the top of the fridge showed me the night’s inventory: two large bottles of vodka, approximately a dozen and a half beer bottles and a goon sack. I got a glass of water and walked outside, where I lit a cigarette. I happened to glance at the meter box and saw a piece of blue fabric protruding from beneath the cover. “That’s odd,” I thought, “I have a shirt that is just that colour.” I looked a little closer and discovered that the fabric appeared to be the average cotton knit of t-shirts. I opened the meter box’s lid and discovered not one but two of my shirts (one still on its hanger) which had, until very recently it seemed, been drying on the line.

I stared in perplexed silence for a moment before extracting them from their dusty sleeping place and, since cleanliness was now a non-issue, put them on the ground outside my room. I walked around the back to the clothes line to see if anything else had gone missing. It had. On first seeing the line it didn’t look like there were nearly enough clothes on it, but I soon remembered I had taken in half the load the night before. There were, however, two empty coat hangers on the far side. I remembered having washed a pink t-shirt, which was not there anymore, and wondered if my favourite white shirt was missing too. I went back into my room and found the white shirt safely ensconced in the dirty clothes basket (where I now deposited the two from the meter box), but no pink shirt.

As I made breakfast, The Guyanan came into the kitchen and I told him the news: “Someone has pinched one of my shirts from the line.” “What!?” he asked, his face expressing his heartfelt concern that someone in our neighbourhood would stoop so low. I told him about the two in the meter box and he stood there dumbly as I spoke.

Later, The Optimist came into the kitchen and I told him what had happened. “Oh, dude, I’m so sorry. I have your pink shirt in my room. Moron One came in last night and he was wearing it and I was like ‘Dude, that’s Dan’s shirt, you can’t wear that!’ and he was like ‘Oh, right, I didn’t know’ and—” I cut him off: “What!? He didn’t know? It was on the washing line!” “Yeah I know, they’re idiots when they’re drunk,” he said, sheepishly stating the obvious, “anyway he took it off pretty much straight away but I’ll wash it for you anyway.” “I can see they’re idiots when they’re drunk,” I said, motioning to the broken sign that I had discovered and thrown into the kitchen bin earlier, “and I suppose it was them who put the shirts in the meter box?” “Ummm,” he said, “I didn’t know about that one.” I told him. He apologised profusely for bringing these morons into our house.

Juggling

It’s been a strange week. Sometimes, when people ask you “How was your week?” you can answer quickly, confidently, “My week has been great thanks, and yours?” or “Fucked. Shithouse. Don’t ask.” This week has not been one of those weeks. This week has been the kind of week where, when asked “How was your week?”, you have to consider your answer before speaking, weighing up the good and bad of the week before giving an answer. This week I have felt overwhelmingly that I am juggling all these glass balls are up in the air, watching them hovering, threatening to come crashing down at any moment as I cling on and try to cope.

Ball #1: pain
This week I have managed the dubious achievement of having every part of my body in pain at some stage. Last Thursday, where this missive begins, I fell down the fucking stairs. I had ducked upstairs to go to the toilet and in my haste, as I was quite literally going to wet myself if I didn’t go to the toilet that instant, I left my stick in my bedroom and took the stairs on my own. On the sixth step from the bottom I misjudged the distance and placed my foot right on the edge of the step, my centre of gravity on the wrong side of that edge. Down I tumbled. My arms instinctively reached out to break my fall: one gripped the banister tighter as I slithered down the stairs, the other went to my side, attempting to act like a brake against the carpet. Both had little effect. As I slid down the stairs I started laughing, maniacally, thinking about the spectacle I must look.

On Monday I had a killer migraine, on the fucking train no less, that saw me lying down across the long seat all the way to the city. I got a taxi home, took a caffergot (100mg of caffeine… just like a punch in the heart) and a sedative and collapsed into bed. Then I puked. I slept for four hours, waking at 8pm, in time for a very nutritious dinner of just-add-water-style noodles, before going to bed shortly after.

And then there’s the perpetual, and totally inexplicable, pain in my back and legs. While it is true that my legs have bothered me considerably less of late, they are still painful on the odd occasion. This fact would be greeted joyously if it weren’t for my back’s total overcompensation in the pain department. What’s worse is that it’s so fucking inconsistent. On Tuesday night it hurt so much that I had tears in my eyes, on the verge of a full-on cry, and no amount of any drug would do anything to dull the pain. Wednesday, on the other hand, was pretty much pain free. Today was pretty good too, still sore but bearable. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT!?

Ball #2: depression
That segues nicely into the second ball, depression and its associated fun extras. As the back situation trundles forth into the land of the unknown, depression is creeping back into my life, ever so slowly. It is not the big bad blanket of despair that once it was; it’s a little more subtle than that. I have very little motivation to get work done, something I cannot afford to do since my workable time is so limited with my fucking back dictating when I can and cannot work. I often feel an overwhelming feeling of helplessness, which is then replaced by an overwhelming irritability in which I can’t fucking stand anyone’s shit and really only want to talk to or otherwise communicate with a handful of close friends.

The worst part of this ball is that in the last fortnight or so I have had the temptation to cut myself again. It hasn’t been particularly strong, but it is there nonetheless, and that scares the shit out of me. I haven’t picked up a knife or a razor, and very soon after the temptation crosses my mind I dismiss it as ridiculous, but it scares me.

Ball #3: existential angst
As I lay in bed, meditating, with the electric blanket on full and a hot water bottle over my chest, my mind wanders to such questions as “Why me?”, “What have I done to deserve this?”, “When will it end?”, “How will it end?”, “Where is God in all of this?”, “Does He care?”. I can’t feel God anymore. Maybe it’s because I’m a perpetually drug-fucked state, maybe it’s something else, but this is getting very lonely.

Ball #4: school work
Since I have missed so many classes and lectures, I am now a little behind in my subjects. Not only that, I have a 2000 word English essay due in a little over a fortnight. That I haven’t started. With my haphazard ability to walk or sit up comfortably, coupled with my occasional blue-tinted worldview, the likelihood of my writing a winning essay is pretty fucking slim.

Ball #5: I have no time for a breakdown
With all this shit happening, I just don’t have time for this. I have things to do, people to see, places to go, essays to write. I think I need a good hug and a cry. But as I am not one to cry at the drop of a walking stick, this is much easier said than done.

So many people have said that they admire my strength, but I don’t feel particularly strong. I guess I must have some strength or I would have given up long ago, but the truth is that at the moment I don’t have much choice in the matter… I either hang on any way I can or I end it all. And I don’t want to die, I want to live, which actually makes this harder because I really do have no other option. But this isn’t much of a life. If it hasn’t cleared up by the end of the exam period I am considering Drastic Measures. Like demanding an MRI. Or heroin. Somehow I will get through this… I just have no idea how.

Bare

Janek introduced me to a rock opera called Bare last week and gave me a copy of the soundtrack. The CD sat on my desk, unplayed, for several days before I finally got the time to listen to it on Thursday afternoon. It is the story of Peter and Jason, two boys living at the co-ed boarding school St Cecelia’s. Peter and Jason are clandestine boyfriends, trying to keep their relationship hidden from Jason’s jock buddies. It’s a touching, tragic story and the singing is sublime. Those who know me well know that a man who can sing makes my knees weak. I thoroughly recommend it.

This afternoon I had a lie down to calm the pain in my back and listened to the soundtrack on my MP3 player. As the story unfolded and the title track began to play, I felt my eyes sting with hot tears. Soon they were followed by sniffles and the rasping breathing of a good ol’ cathartic cry. I haven’t had a good cry in a very long time.

He also found a bootleg video, available here: Act I and Act II.

Mystery solved

The toaster has returned. The Guyanan, The Optimist and I were all fairly certain we knew where it was: in the Space Cadet’s bedroom. And sure enough, we were right. I caught him on the way out the other night…

Me: Hey Space Cadet, do you know where the toaster has got to?
SC: Yeh, man, it’s in my bedroom.
Me: Oh, ok. Um, you know it’s my toaster right?
SC: Oh sorry man, I thought it was, like, the house’s toaster or something.
Me: Nup, it’s my toaster.
SC: Oh ok, do you need it now, man? It’s just I’ve gotta go somewhere.
Me: No, not right now. Just put it back when you get home so I can use it in the morning for breakfast.
SC: Ok cool, man, sorry about that.

I relayed this conversation to The Guyanan and The Optimist. When I told them that The Space Cadet was under the impression that it was common property they were dumbfounded that The Space Cadet was under the impression that taking the common property toaster into your bedroom is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. The Optimist asked me what happened to my butter. I forgot to ask him, to be honest, because I too was dumbfounded at The Space Cadet’s logic.

He was in the kitchen, cooking his dinner (though thankfully it was not baked beans) and I asked him what happened to my butter. He replied “Oh I pinched it”. Right. The carton was at least three quarters full. He had asked me if he could have a little to fry some bacon and I said to help himself, but I certainly didn’t mean to help himself to that extent. He offered me some of his margarine but I declined and explained the butter he’d “pinched” from me was special lactose-free margarine, not any old margarine. He apologised and offered to buy me some the next day. Three days later and I am yet to see it.

Mystery solved.

The toaster war

This morning I went into the kitchen to make toast for breakfast. The Guyanan, The Optimist and his Gorgeous Friend were eating breakfast at the dining table. I got bread from the freezer, walked over to the place on the bench where the toaster should have been; it wasn’t there. I should point out that the toaster is mine, not a toaster that belongs to the uni or the house. Upon seeing its absence, I leapt backwards in fashion reminiscent of Basil Fawlty discovering that there is a wall where a door should be. I yelped.

“Where the fuck is my toaster?” I yelped. This seemed to startle Gorgeous Friend who looked at me with a bit of a frightened look. It made him look even cuter. “Yeah,” said The Optimist, “I’ve been meaning to ask you that. It wasn’t here yesterday and I thought you’d taken it to your room.” “No… why would I do that?” “Must have been the Space Cadet. Trying to find a way to spend even less time in the kitchen.”

I put the bread in the microwave and defrosted it in preparation for making a sandwich. Once it had defrosted, I opened the fridge to get the butter and an egg-and-mayo spread. For the second time that day I yelped and did the Basil Fawlty leap.

“And where the fuck is my butter!?” The Guyanan, The Optimist and Gorgeous Friend laughed. I sent a text message to my Dad as I ate… I woke this morning 2 discover not only my butter mysteriously vanished from kitchen but my fucking toaster too. I wonder who took it? The Optimist saw it gone yday, thought I had it in my room & said “obviously The Space Cadet trying 2 stay out of the kitchen a little more”. This is war.

Back woes

I have not been a happy camper this weekend. My back has wavered between annoying and blinding with pain. During the annoying periods I think “ok this isn’t too bad”; during the blinding pain I lay on my bed, shirtless, with the electric blanket below me and my teddy bear and pillow on my chest, eyes closed, music playing, concentrating on my breathing. The physio seems to think things are going well; I’m not so sure.